Squeak

Homecoming I

Erik

"Squeak?!"

Where is that girl at?

"Is everything okay, son?"

An unnatural feeling curled in the pit of my stomach as my father entered the foyer. I looked up to him. He was my role model, but his presence had brought nothing but anxiety tinged with a little bit of insecurity regarding Jezebel.

He wouldn't hurt her...right? No...he wouldn't do that...he loves me.

"That depends. Where's Jezebel? She told me to meet her at Starbucks, but she wasn't there."

"I can't say. I'm not your girlfriend's keeper. Maybe you should keep her on a tighter leash."

"Fuck you," I snarled in his face.

He smirked and stepped up to me. I'd be lying if I said he didn't intimidate me in the slightest. I wasn't a bitch, but I'd witnessed firsthand what the man was capable of. When I was eight, I saw him gouge a man's eyes out with his thumbs for checking out my mother. I watched him beat a man near death with a tire iron over a fender bender when I was ten. I'd be here all day if I recounted all the foul shit he'd done. Jezebel had a fucking mouth on her, and it was nothing for him to knock her in it. One night, he backhanded my mother at the dinner table for asking why he didn't come home the night before. She gave him a bloody smile, thanked him, and asked for another. I promptly excused myself, knowing they'd go feral over each other in a matter of seconds.

He sighed. "Let's not fight, my beautiful son. I've missed you and thought about you every day and night since I've been away."

"Why did you go away?"

"Connections."

"Connections?"

"Prison is big business, son. Remember that." I was about to ask him more questions when I heard the clanging of pots and pans from the kitchen. "Hm. I wonder who that could be."

I left him in the foyer and limped towards the kitchen, where I found my missing girlfriend putting the finishing touches on dinner.

"Jezebel? Where the fuck have you been?" She sighed and continued to dice a cucumber for the salad, completely ignoring my inquiry. I took a few moments to take in her appearance, observing the cuts on her arms and legs. "Jezebel, I swear to God if you don't start talking—"

"I got drunk, okay?"

"What?" I asked in disbelief. She laid the butcher knife on the counter and turned to face me.

"I felt bad for hitting you like I did."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did. I thought I had killed you. I was drinking and pacing the study. I was afraid I'd go to jail. Your father suggested I stop, but I ignored him. The shots came out of nowhere, and I was slurring and stumbling over my feet. I tripped and fell into the coffee table. Your dad helped me out and cleaned up the mess. I was resting on the couch in Charles's office. I told him not to tell you what happened because I was embarrassed."

"Why the fuck did you send me to Starbucks to meet up?"

"I needed time to sober up. I didn't want you to see me that way," she whispered with a pout. "It wasn't one of my finer moments," she slurred.

I crowded her personal space, forcing her against the counter.

"You know what's great?"

"What?" she asked.

"Dashcams." She froze. "They're such a fucking beautiful thing. They catch everything. Especially manipulative, lying bitches."

I didn't give her a chance to lie to me again and exited the house from the back, where I found my mother smoking a cigarette. I sat beside her on the porch swing.